Van Gogh’s Olive Grove
Their branches reach out
heated imploring
mounds of grass like dry
skirts twisted
around ankles
arms long and unsteady
in the sun
trees grow outside
his hospital window more human
they writhe, shrink, expand
in the flames of green morning light
his trees beckon us
up blue wind-swept heaven
at the edge
of the canvas
on the verge of escaping
–jeannine hall gailey